


It can wait

by cobain_cleopatra



Series: Little Crow Oneshots [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dishonored AU, Fluff, Grumpy Daud, M/M, Snarky Corvo, Time Skips, whaler Corvo, younger Corvo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobain_cleopatra/pseuds/cobain_cleopatra
Summary: Corvo wants to know how Daud got his scar. Everyone seems to have heard a different story.





	

1827

“How did he get that scar?”

Rulfio paused his inspection of the wristbow, following Corvo’s gaze to the other end of the training room. Daud stood there, expression fixed in a scowl. He was probably reprimanding the pair of novice Whalers stood before him.

Rulfio glanced back at Corvo with a slight smirk. “Curious pup, aren’t you,” he remarked. “Think that’s the first time you’ve ever spoken to me, you know.”

Corvo dropped his gaze to the floor self-consciously. He’d been in Rudshore for two months, training with Rulfio and the other novices since he had arrived. He wasn’t close to feeling settled in yet, but he was getting there. And though he didn’t particularly show it, he liked Rulfio.

“Do you know how he got it?” Corvo asked again, shifting back on topic.

Rulfio gave a one-shouldered shrug while he tightened the wristbow’s gears. “There are rumours,” he began, “that he got it sailing to Pandyssia. Think the story goes that he commandeered a pirate ship and challenged the Captain to a duel. The scar came from the fight.”

Corvo inspected the scar. It ran the length of Daud’s face, starting just above his right eye, and fading near his jawline. It could have been formed with a sword, he supposed. It was too jagged to leave him completely convinced.

“Anyway, that’s only as far as I’ve heard,” Rulfio added, tossing the wristbow into one of the crates. “You’ll have to ask him yourself, pup. If you want the full story.”

Something in his tone held a challenge. Corvo glared, stubbornly dropping down from his perch. He took a few steps in Daud’s direction. When Daud snapped at the novice Whalers, making the both of them flinch, Corvo hesitated.

He soon retreated back and took his respective seat, glare deepening when Rulfio chuckled.

“Smart decision,” he said. “Best leave some things a mystery, eh?”

Corvo sulked for the remainder of training.

***

1828

After spending the last half hour in silence, Corvo decided to speak. He’d been enjoying the cigarette, the first he’d ever had, in the older Whaler’s company while they were stationed outside the Grieves Refinery. But now he was merely inspecting it as a question came to mind.

“Arden?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know how Daud got his scar?”

The Whaler scoffed. “Which one?”

“Under his eye.”

Arden blew a smoke ring as he considered it for a few seconds. “Which story you want?”

Corvo frowned. “There’s more than one?”

“Aye. You want Billie’s or Akila’s?”

“Both.”

The Whaler held his cigarette between his teeth, grinned, and then beckoned Corvo nearer. Corvo shuffled to sit close beside him. Arden was vulgar, and loud, and smoked like a set of chimneys, and yet Corvo had grown nothing but fond of him in the year they’d known each other. He assumed the feeling was mutual; Arden only grinned like that when he liked you.

“So Billie’s goes,” the Whaler began, giving the area a quick sweep with his eyes to make sure Daud wasn’t nearby. “Daud had a hit on an aristocrat. Rich bastard, owned an estate up in the Legal District. Should’ve been an easy job, right? But the target knew he was bein’ followed, see. Got tipped off by a friend in court. Set up traps, snares and the like, around his bedroom.” Arden made a fist with his hand, then opened it suddenly to mimic an explosion. “Boom. Daud triggers a tripwire near the window, bolt just misses his eye, by this much,” he brought his thumb and forefinger together to emphasise the tight space. “The nobleman shoots out of bed and grabs his sword.”

“Daud fell into a trap?”

“Apparently.”

Corvo was doubtful of that.

“Turns out, the nobleman was a retired Tyvian soldier. Used to be the personal bodyguard to one of the High Judges. Yeah,” Arden assured, nodding enthusiastically when Corvo raised an eyebrow. “Billie said the fight lasted hours, till Daud finally cut the prick down.”

“And he got the scar from the fight?”

“Apparently,” Arden repeated. He flicked his own cigarette away, swiping Corvo’s half-finished one afterwards.

Corvo didn’t mind. Arden never asked for anything. “What’s Akila’s story?”

“You know Slackjaw?”

“Rulf mentioned him,” Corvo answered. He had heard the Bottle Street gang were big news in Dunwall after taking over Hatter territory a few months ago.

“Know how no one here’s been able to get close enough to him to take him out? Yet,” Arden added for good measure. Everyone in Rudshore was certain they’d get the gang leader soon.

Corvo nodded.

“Well,” the Whaler continued. “‘Kila says Daud tangled with him once.”

“With Slackjaw?”

“Managed to take the ugly fucker by surprise in his own Distillery,” Arden said. “‘cept they got these molotov’s, right? Nasty things that explode on impact. ‘Kila says that Slackjaw had one handy, and that was the only reason he managed to escape. If he hadn’t had it, Daud would’ve got him.”

“So he got the scar from a Molotov?”

“So ‘Kila says, yeah.”

“Or during the fight with the retired soldier?”

“Yeah.”

Corvo felt his brow furrow further with each word. “Rulf told me it was from a duel with a pirate Captain, on a ship to Pandyssia.”

“That right?” Arden reclined back against the slanted rooftop they were occupying. “Ain’t heard that one before.”

“So which one’s true?”

The Whaler cocked his head, the cigarette hanging limply from his lips. “Mm?”

“Which story’s real?”

Arden chuckled, shrugging and tucking his arms behind his head. “No fuckin’ clue. Probably none of ‘em.”

Corvo glowered.

***

1829

“I blame you. Entirely,” Quinn hissed.

“What a coincidence,” Corvo shot back, “because I blame you.”

It had been a stupid decision to go after Slackjaw alone. A mere day after becoming fully fledged assassins, and Corvo and Quinn had felt unstoppable. Ready for anything. Rulfio was right; they were the biggest imbeciles in Dunwall. Maybe in the whole Isles. Corvo certainly felt like it right now.

They weren’t allowed to leave Rudshore for the next four months, following the results of their little escapade. It had been a disaster. Corvo knew he and Quinn were only alive now because of Daud. If he hadn’t have shown up, they wouldn’t be breathing, let alone cleaning the entire kitchen as that night’s punishment. The first of many to come, Corvo was bitterly sure.

“Was kind of fun, though.” Quinn glanced at him from where he scrubbed the floor, a few metres away.

Corvo chewed on the inside of his mouth, then relented. “Yeah. It was.”

Quinn’s crooked smile reminded him why he liked him so much. Corvo certainly hadn’t been bored since Quinn arrived. And as that afternoon had proven, no one could tell who was the worse influence on the other.

“Thought Daud was gonna kill us,” Quinn remarked, peering over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “Never seen him so angry before.”

Neither had Corvo. Once he’d found them, after saving their lives, Corvo had sworn they wouldn’t survive the day after all, after seeing the look in Daud’s eyes. It had taken Rulfio’s endless patience to calm their leader down, and they’d gotten off lightly considering the circumstances.

“I feel a little bad,” Quinn said, wincing. “Did you see the Molotov that hit Daud? It should’ve hit me. It’s gonna leave a scar, for sure.”

“Better his shoulder than your entire face,” Corvo remarked. "Couldn't handle you any uglier."

"Fuck off," Quinn retorted, grinning. “Wonder how many other scars Daud’s gotten because of shitty assassins like us.”

“Probably all of them.” Corvo frowned. The sponge in his hands stopped scrubbing the floorboards. “You ever heard how Daud got the scar under his eye?”

Quinn stopped scrubbing too, leaning up on his knees. Corvo stretched his back. They’d been hunched over on the floor for hours.

“Not sure,” Quinn answered eventually. “Jordan heard from Mont that he got it from Slackjaw.”

“I heard that too, from Arden. But Billie said he got it from a Tyvian solider.”

Quinn shook his head. “Yuri told me he got it from travelling around Tyvia, when he fought off a bear.”

“Never heard that one.”

“And Rulf said he got it from duelling a pir–”

“Pirate Captain,” Corvo finished for him. “Yeah, he told me the same.”

Quinn sighed as he got back to cleaning. “Can’t believe anything around here,” he huffed. “So which one’s the truth? Do you know?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Quinn grinned. “Dare you to ask Daud.”

“No.”

“Dare you.”

“Did you see how pissed off he was?”

 _“Dare_ you.”

Corvo glared at his friend, biting out his answer through clenched teeth. “Fine. I will.”

Quinn’s smug reply was cut short when a shadow passed over the kitchen door. They peered up, and cringed under Daud’s inspection. He didn’t say anything, just scowled until even Corvo was uncomfortable in the heavy silence.

“Sir,” the greeted mutually.

Daud’s answering growl had them both wincing. The relief between them was palpable when Daud turned on his heel and stalked away.

Quinn dropped his head onto the floor, chuckling nervously before glimpsing at Corvo through his hair. “On second thought, the dare can wait. Maybe till he’s calmed down,” the Whaler yielded. “In a few years.”

Corvo wholeheartedly agreed.

***

1831

“Report for you.” Corvo waited until Daud signalled him in before approaching. “Desmond Alrick’s in the holding cells. Complaining, but alive. Thomas said he’ll return him once the client gets the ransom money.”

Daud gave a distracted nod, searching for something beneath the vast amounts of paperwork on his desk. Noting the cigarette in his gloved hand, Corvo began to scan around for the lighter.

“Fucking chaos, everything in here,” Daud grumbled, glaring at the papers as if in hope they might combust under his expression. “This is what happens when I leave Billie in charge.” He had been away from Dunwall for a few days, on an especially 'hush hush' job. Apparently even Billie didn’t know where he’d gone, or why.

Corvo discovered the lighter, and held it out to him. “Billie’s done a good job with the men in your absence. Go easy on her for the mess.”

Daud’s expression softened as he took the lighter from him. “I don’t like leaving the men alone. Not while this business with the plague is going on.”

Corvo was surprised by the confession. Daud was secretive. He could imagine their leader confiding in Billie, probably Rulfio too. Perhaps even Thomas. Corvo didn’t think he’d ever be included in that trust.

“The Abbey’s worse than ever since the rats appeared,” Daud continued, pacing as he lit his cigarette. Corvo tried not to stare at his mouth when he took a drag. “And the industrial masks may prevent sickness, but I can’t be sure.” He eventually slumped into the chair, rubbing his temples. “A lot to consider these days. A lot to be concerned with.”

Corvo wondered whether to respond, whether Daud _wanted_ him to respond. He decided to take a chance. “The men know to stay clear of Overseers. And Mont says the masks will stop plague, even if the Arcane Bond doesn’t. With all due respect, if your confidence starts crumbling now, the rest of the men are sure to follow suit. And then we’ll be nowhere.”

Corvo often surprised himself with his own bluntness. But Daud had never seemed to mind before, and he didn’t seem to now, even with his cigarette poised midair, and his steely eyes fixed on Corvo as he spoke.

“How old are you now, Attano? Twenty three? Twenty four?”

“Nineteen.”

Daud grunted, seeming a little taken aback by his answer. “You seem older.”

Corvo didn’t know how to take that, compliment or not. He didn’t reply.

“Scars will do that to you,” Daud continued. From where his gaze had come to rest, Corvo knew he was referring to the slash across his left eyebrow. “A Watch general, wasn’t it? I remember.”

Corvo nodded. He remembered too. It had been Galia’s first job in the Estate District, and she hadn’t seen the officer moving up behind her. Corvo didn’t regret getting the scar; Galia wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. But right now, as Daud’s eyes lingered on it, he felt discomfort knot in his stomach.

“Scars will age anyone,” Daud remarked as he finally focused elsewhere, down on the disorganised paperwork. “You’re dismissed. The Feast begins in a few hours, so get some rest. We still have the job in the Distillery District tomorrow afternoon.”

Corvo bowed his head, walking a few steps before a question burned so insistently in his mind he couldn’t ignore it. They were on the topic of scars already, and Daud had seemed uncharacteristically open to conversation.

“Sir?”

“Mm?” Daud didn’t look up. The scar made him look ten times sterner as he scowled, piling the papers up. “What is it?”

Corvo had hesitated too long. All of a sudden, it didn’t feel like his place to ask such a thing. He decided the mystery could wait a few years more, if it had to.

“Never mind. Enjoy the Feast.”

***

1833

Corvo winced when the needle made contact with his skin. He found the dull buzzing of the tattooist’s drill oddly soothing, though. He put it down to the various mix of liquor in his system. Another thing he blamed the alcohol for was the fact he’d let Arden convince him to do this at all; go out into the city, get so drunk he couldn’t walk straight, pay a stranger in a back alley parlour to permanently mark his skin.

It was his twenty first birthday, and Corvo decided that the saying ‘older and wiser’ was bullshit in his case.

“Already got a fair amount of ink here,” the tattoo artist commented. Corvo grit his teeth when the needle grazed his shoulder blade. “What’s another one though, right?”

Corvo and Arden exchanged a look, and even in their drunken state, they both decided to keep quiet. How was the tattooist to know their other marks hadn’t been made by needles and ink? Although, had they mentioned the Arcane Bond and Void magic that _had_ made them, Corvo suspected they were drunk enough that no one would have taken them seriously.

“What’ch’you gettn,” Corvo slurred, and almost toppled off the bench he was sitting on before the tattooist steadied him. Then he asked again, clearer. “What you getting?”

“Daud’s face,” Arden answered. “On m’arse.”

Corvo blinked.

“I’m fuckin’ joking, c’mon,” the Whaler grinned. “A blood ox, on m’shoulder. Fuckin’ love them things. Massive fuckin’ horns.”

Arden gave his own tattooist an appreciative look up and down; a curvy Serkonan woman with the bluest eyes Corvo had ever seen. Though most colours in the parlour seemed abnormally bright in his opinion; another fact he put down to the whiskies Arden had forced down him.

Corvo’s tattooist steadied him again. “Stay still, please. Else this could go horribly wrong.”

“Rulf’s gonna kill you, ‘ttano,” Arden sang, grinning from ear to ear. “Did y’tell him we were comin’ out t’night?”

“Not a pup anymore,” Corvo growled. “Don’t have to tell him anything. I’ll just pull my collar up anyway, he won’t know about the tattoo.”

Arden tutted a few times, swaying to the side and almost knocking his artist over. “Daud’ll know,” he warned, wagging a finger at him. “He always knows.”

“Almost done,” Corvo's artist announced.

Daud would undoubtedly know, Corvo supposed. Their leader knew everything. And if not right away, then he would undoubtedly find out. Corvo absently wondered whether Daud would approve of the new marks; three crows running from the back of Corvo’s neck to the centre of his shoulders. As Daud’s scar ran from his eye to the corner of his lips.

“Arden?”

The Whaler peered blearily over towards him. “Yup?”

“Make a deal with me,” Corvo proposed. “When we get back, we ask Daud how he got the scar on his face, yeah?”

Arden nodded fervently. “Absolutely. Let’s ask him the moment– no, the minute– no, no, no, no, the _second_ we get back,” he agreed. “The very fuckin’ _second_ we get back.”

They didn’t. They collapsed near the Rail Station, and Corvo woke the next morning with a sore neck and the reluctant acceptance that he’d never be drunk enough to consider asking Daud about his scar again.

***

1837

Corvo trailed the scar, fingertips tracing the jagged marks over Daud’s cheekbone. “How’d it happen?”

“Mm?” The man was half asleep, shifting lazily into Corvo’s touch.

“The scar.”

Daud opened one eye, brow arching quizzically. Corvo took in the sight of the marred tissue against the hue of Daud’s skin. He considered how Daud would look without it, then decided quickly that he didn’t want to know. Daud had had the scar since they first met. Corvo wouldn’t change a single detail.

“Why do you want to know?”

Corvo canted his jaw stubbornly, moving to rest further atop him. “You’ve always had it. I’m curious.”

“As I’ve said countless times, your curiosity never fails to irritate me,” Daud muttered, but there was no venom in his tone. Only mild annoyance, and a hint of something softer underneath. “It’s a boring story.”

“Bullshit.” There was nothing boring about Daud’s life, as little Corvo knew about it before the Whalers had begun. “Did you get it at the Academy?”

Daud’s upper lip curled in distaste. His winter at the Academy of Natural Philosophy was a popular topic among the men, much to Daud’s chagrin. Corvo imagined Billie or Rulfio had leaked the information; Daud would have never revealed the details of his own accord.

“There wasn’t much time for sword fighting at the Academy, Corvo.”

Corvo traced the scar again. “A sword didn’t do this.” He’d figured that out by now. A blade would have left a clean slice, not jagged edges. “You know the men have made up stories about it.”

“Of course I know. Nothing goes on around here without me knowing.”

 _Except Billie’s betrayal_. It was left hanging between them, raw and still too fresh in their minds. Corvo pressed his lips to the deepest part of the scar. He didn’t want to talk about such things. Not yet. Not now. It was only Corvo’s third time in this bed. He didn’t want to spend it discussing past regrets.

“Is there a reason you haven’t told the men the truth?” he asked. “If they knew, they’d stop making up stories.”

“To be honest,” Daud began, whilst threading the tangles in Corvo’s hair loose, “I find it rather amusing.”

“It’s frustrated me for years.”

“Has it, now?”

“Yes.”

“As you’ve frustrated me for years.” Daud looked far too pleased with himself. “Perhaps I won’t tell you.” He raised an eyebrow as Corvo glared up at him. “You glare in your sleep, too. Did you know that?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Daud sighed, in what sounded like resignation. His arms encircled Corvo’s waist, pulling him further up his chest until they were face to face. Corvo’s eyes ran the length of the scar once more. “If you want to know, then ask.” His thumb brushed Corvo’s own scars; the one cutting across his eyebrow, then the fresh burn marks on his jaw. “I’ll tell you.”

Corvo studied him, and knew Daud would give him nothing but the truth if he asked for it. The story he’d been waiting to hear. The scar that had fascinated him for years. It seemed strange, almost wrong, for the mystery of it to end so suddenly, so easily. It was stranger yet when Corvo realised he didn’t care to end it. Not yet. He wanted the here and the now, Daud’s arms around him; something that, until three days ago, Corvo hadn’t thought possible.

“Tell me another time.” Corvo rested his forehead against the scar, his mouth at the corner of Daud’s. “It can wait.”


End file.
